


Until You Die

by evilsami



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Guardian Angels, But its mild and written by an atheist, Discussions of death and afterlife, Getting Together, M/M, Meet-Cute, Mental Health Issues, Mild Sexual Content, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Season/Series 05, canon typical language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-29
Updated: 2020-06-27
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:54:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24445378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evilsami/pseuds/evilsami
Summary: Ian wakes up to find a strange man in his bedroom.  Everything kind of devolves from there.
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Comments: 1
Kudos: 85





	1. Gazardiel

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, all! This fic is complete (with a planned sequel, although no promises when that'll be posted), and I'll be posting every Friday for the next few weeks. This is my first fic for this fandom, and the longest fic I've actually published in... a while. Please be gentle. 
> 
> I posted and then removed this fic a few months back, because I had to rewrite a chapter and finish it. So, if you've read the first few chapters before, welcome back, and enjoy the remodeled interior! If you haven't, (or even if you have) I hope you stick around for the rest. Till next week!
> 
> P.S. There's a slur in here that Mickey often uses in canon, so beware. Also, the chapter titles are angel names, if you're curious ;)

Ian’s got a problem.

He can’t say it’s the biggest problem he’s ever faced; he can’t even say it’s the most urgent. It’s pretty high up on the list though.

He went to sleep last night a normal kid (closeted, poor, and questionably criminal aside), and woke up sometime in the night to find someone standing silhouetted by his window, watching him sleep.

What the fuck, right?

He’d stilled for a while, pretending to sleep, watching the guy (short, stocky) through his eyelashes. He seemed to be scanning the room, looking for something. For what, Ian had no clue; he wouldn’t find anything of value in the Gallagher house. He stepped further into the room. Liam’s nightlight gave his features an eerie glow. The guy had dark hair and pale skin and a confident, loping walk.

Ian shifted. Curled his fingers around the baton he kept close to his bed. Can’t be too careful in South Side.

The guy cocked his head, like a dog listening to a far-off noise. He turned, faced the door. Ian watched him come to a still. Waited.

Good a time as any.

Ian was out of bed in a flash, already swinging the baton around to the guy’s side. He flinched, listed over to one side. Ian kicked at the back of his knee, sending him to the ground. One more heavy hit to the temple, and the guy was out cold on his bedroom floor.

Goddamn right.

But what was he supposed to do next? Call the cops? Call Fiona?

Ian looked down when a soft glow caught his eye. The guy, the boy, really, because he couldn’t be much older than Ian, was fucking glowing. A light shimmer danced across his back, or maybe just along Ian’s vision. Ian blinked, rubbed his eyes once, and the shimmering, glowy whatever disappeared.

Instead, the boy suddenly had wings.

Ian has been standing here, staring at this guy’s back for at least fifteen minutes wondering what the hell he’s going to do about this. He’s like, eighty percent sure he’s not hallucinating right now. On the other hand, if the guy’s real, if Ian turns this guy in, it’s out of his hands. He’ll probably end up in a lab somewhere, and maybe he deserves that for being a total fucking creep, but Ian’s not sure he’ll be satisfied with that end. 

Not if it means this guy disappears and Ian never even finds out why he was here in the first place.

Fuck. FUCK.

Okay, this is fine. Really, it couldn’t have happened on a better night. Fiona’s with her boyfriend, Lip’s at college, Debbie’s got someone in her room, and Carl’s probably out robbing a convenience store.

It’s the most privacy he’s likely to get.

Carl’s got rope in the desk under his bed, and Ian’s not going to question why it’s there. There’s a chair still in the hallway, one of the legs weak from Debbie’s angry hysterics last weekend, but it’ll get the job done.

He props the guy up in the chair, careful not to squish the wings, careful not to spend too long touching them because, wow. They’re so soft. So distracting. He really just wants to curl his fingers into them, stroke through the feathers. Is this a thing? Mandy dated a guy who was into, like, fantasy stuff, about a year ago. With the fairies and the wings. It could be a thing.

Shit, he got distracted.

Ian secures his (fuck, prisoner?) to the arms and legs of the chair. He’s got no idea what he’s going to do if this guy won’t talk to him. It’s not like he does this on the regular.

He reaches out, lightly, touches the welt he left on his stranger’s temple. The boy groans, eyebrows creasing, but otherwise doesn’t move. The skin is red and agitated, split in a fine line near his brow. It’s scabbing over already. Ian still goes to the bathroom, grabs the first aid kit. Some band aids and a half a tube of triple antibiotic Debbie stole from a sleepover, but whatever, it’ll have to do.

When he comes back, the boy is waking up. The wings, at least, have begun moving restlessly behind him. There’s a crease between his eyebrows again, like he’s concentrating on something. His face is lined with pain, and Ian almost feels bad except where he doesn’t.

He notices, albeit contritely, that the guy is actually really cute.

And now Ian is the creepy one.

Ian sets down the first aid kit, watches the boy’s lashes flutter, cinch tightly closed, and then open, landing on Ian. He looks confused. It’s fucking adorable. Belatedly, Ian flips on the light. The sudden brightness is blinding. The boy flinches, seems to notice the bindings restricting his movement.

Ian smiles, hopes he doesn’t look as sick to his stomach as he suddenly feels. The boy has blue eyes, and he’s staring unblinkingly. Ian had kind of hoped he wouldn’t have to be the first to say anything.

“How are you feeling?” The guy blinks, frowns, says nothing. “You got a name?” The response is a single sardonic eyebrow, lifted in an expression of contempt. “You wanna tell me why you’re here?”

If possible, the boy frowns even harder.

Ian sighs, rubs his face, picks up the butterfly knife on his bedside table. He sits down, watches the boy watch him back. Waits.

The boy says nothing, takes in his face, the knife, his posture, all in one slow glance. He smirks a bit, the wings behind him shifting. He slouches in the chair, as much as he can. Gives Ian the most insolent look he’s ever seen.

They stare at each other, considering. Ian flips the knife open, twirls it around his fingertips, closes it again. The boy scoffs. Ian repeats the trick.

“You hit me.” It’s the first thing he’s heard the boy say, and his voice almost doesn’t match his face. It’s smooth, a bit on the higher side. Ian kind of likes it, honestly. Would like it better if it didn’t sound so accusing.

“You were spying on me while I slept. You’re lucky I just knocked you out.”

The boy scoffs, glances away. “Yeah, well, what now, tough guy?” His eyes linger on Ian’s arms and waist. He smirks, crowds closer into the boy’s space.

“Tell me what you are.”

“I’m an angel, douchebag.” Ian scoffs, leans back in the bed to look the boy over. 

“What’s your name, then, angel boy?”

He laughs. “Real original, there, boy scout. It’s Mickey. You don’t have to believe me or anything. Makes my job easier when you don’t actually know I’m around.”

Ian sighs, glances at Liam’s crib. Angels aren’t real. Because that would mean thinking that at least one of the religious sects had things right, and anyway Ian doesn’t like the idea of some fuckhead running around upstairs, jacking off while Ian’s whole family has lived through more shit than anyone ever really should. No thanks. 

But the wings, though.

Ian rolls his eyes, annoyed at himself for wanting answers and annoyed at himself for not being satisfied with them. A niggling voice in the back of his head brings back the idea that maybe he’s dreaming, or this is all the product of his fucked up brain.

Only, he’s been stable for weeks now with no other symptoms, and his toe is still throbbing pretty hard from where he accidentally kicked the bed frame in the dark earlier. This is real, somehow. He kind of wants a smoke.

“Okay, I’ll bite. What’s an angel doing sneaking into my bedroom, huh?”

Mickey, apparently, has lost interest in the conversation, is instead looking around the room as he had been earlier. “Where is everybody? It’s pretty unusual you’re here alone.”

Ian doesn’t answer. How much does this guy know about him? About his family? Mickey looks back at Ian. He sighs. “I’m just sayin’, man. Wasn’t trying to be weird.” Still, Ian says nothing, waiting on an answer. “I’m supposed to look out for, ya. Make sure you don’t do any stupid shit. Well, not that that’s ever stopped you from trying, but.”

Ian smiles, just a bit. He isn't wrong; Ian has always been good at getting into trouble, and equally talented at getting out of it. “So you’ve been spying on me for a while, then.”

“I’m not spyin’, man. Look can you stop actin’ like such a girl and untie me, already? I still have to do a perimeter check and I was gonna go kill the family o’ rats you got livin’ in the basement tonight. Damn things are startin’ to brave the stairs after dark.”

For an angel, Mickey sure sounded Southside. Also, rats?

“Is that the scratchin’ I’ve been hearing at night?”

Mickey nodded. “Yeah, man. I’m tellin’ ya. They’re fuckin’ huge. You don’t wanna get bit by one.”

“And watching me sleep?”

Mickey sighs. “Look I told you; I’m supposed to watch over you.”

Ian smiles, looks at Mickey trussed up and helpless in his bedroom. A part of him feels insanely comfortable, as if he’s been subconsciously relaxing since Mickey woke up. It’s a weird thought to have, but this whole night has been weird, and he’s pretty tired, and it’s hard to care about it all that much now that the adrenaline is fading from his system.

“So you’re my guardian angel,” is what he says, and he sits and waits for Mickey to refute the claim, to tell him to shut up, anything but what he actually says.

“Until you die.”

Ian swallows, suddenly tense, a prickling chill sweeping down the back of his neck. “Meaning what, exactly?”

“I’m yours until you die. Which had better not be anytime fuckin’ soon, Gallagher. I can’t go back with less than two decades under my belt, they’d laugh me straight into Hell. Literally.”

A bit calmer, and not really knowing why, Ian considers his options. “I’m still not going to untie you.”

Another expressive eyebrow raised. This angel-boy must communicate a lot through facial expression alone.

“I’ll untie your feet to walk. We can go sit on the couch. It’s more comfortable than this, probably. But you’re not going anywhere.”

Mickey nods, stares expectantly at Ian, who doesn’t make any move to get up and untie him. “Your head wound is gone.” He’s pretty sure there’s a clue there. Mickey rolls his eyes. Looks to his wings, back to Ian. Raises one eyebrow. Yeah, okay.

Ian finally stands, helps Mickey up. Mickey doesn’t fight as Ian releases the knots at his ankles and guides him into standing and stretching his stiff legs and wings. It must have been more uncomfortable than he’d first thought.

“Got a preference?” Ian asks as he leads Mickey down the stairs. He stops, stares as the angel adjusts his wings against the back of the couch.

Mickey rolls his eyes, nods toward the scattering of open DVD cases stolen from libraries and pawn shops lying nonchalantly in front of the TV. “Just play the fucking Van Damme, already. I know you’re fuckin’ dying to watch his lame ass.”

Ian arches a brow but doesn’t say anything. He does, however, insert the disc, settling in close enough to keep watch on both Mickey and the film. Their knees brush together as he settles, but Mickey doesn’t seem to mind, barely seems to notice. Ian idly wonders if Mickey always sits so close on movie nights, wonders if he’s actually starting to believe that he’s got a guardian angel or that Mickey’s actually his.


	2. Dumah

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter gets a warning because Mickey uses a gay slur. It's used in canon, but if you're uncomfortable with that, just be aware.

Ian wakes up to warmth. Like, a suffocating amount of warmth pressed all along the length of his body, which is weird, because Carl and Debbie are 'too old' to sleep with their siblings anymore, and Liam is never this warm unless he's sick.

When Ian opens his eyes to find himself snuggled up with the boy from last night, he panics, flails, and knocks his head on the arm of the couch.

So. Last night. Not a dream.

There’s yelling coming from the kitchen, the clatter and resultant noise of four people getting themselves ready for the day ahead. Blinking, he glances at Mickey, wondering if he’s still asleep, only he finds the boy untied, stretched along the couch with his wings curled up around the edges in a makeshift cocoon. Ian blinks again, glances toward the kitchen, jerks his attention back to Mickey. He opens his mouth to say something, anything, what the actual fuck, man?

“Before you start yelling at me, you should probably know that your family? Can’t actually see me.”

Ian feels like he’s spent the majority of the last twelve hours blinking in confusion.

“What are you talking about?” he whispers, because one way or another, he’s going to come out of this probably looking like a crazy person. At this point, he’s not sure if he’d prefer his family think he was hallucinating Mickey, or Mickey being part of some larger, more insane practical joke.

“Yo, man, normally you wouldn’t be able to see me either. But since I’m yours, well. Privileges. The rest of your family just looks at me and sees empty air.”

“What the actual fuck.”

“What the actual fuck, what, man?” Lip enters the room fully, swinging himself along the arm of the couch and narrowly avoiding bludgeoning Mickey with his bag. “I’m not the one that fell asleep on the couch drooling over Van Damme. How late were you up last night?” He’s smirking, but Ian can also see the tense set of his shoulders, can hear the conversation halting in the next room over. “Are you, uh, having a conversation with the throw pillows or something?” 

But if Lip can’t see Mickey, then. Then what? Is he having a psychotic break? He feels normal, medicated; he doesn’t feel high, or low, or anything. Is this a side effect of the meds?

“Hey, Liam, buddy, can I have one of your snacks?” 

Ian watches, incredulous, as Liam reaches over and sets a single gummy on the couch cushion. Lip either doesn’t notice, or doesn’t care, that Mickey then picks it up and eats it, reaching out his hand for a low five from Liam.

“Nah, I’m just. Had a weird dream, I guess.”

Because what else is he going to say?

“Ok. Ok. Just, uh. You know you can talk to me, or any of us, if you’re not. Ok.”

“Right.” Lip nods, once, firmly, and then strides purposefully into the kitchen. Ian sighs, rubs a finger into the space between his eyebrows. What the fuck what the fuck what the fuck? His new mantra, apparently.

“You alright there, Hotshot?”

Ian kind of feels like Mickey’s not used to being concerned for other people, which doesn’t really mesh with his general understanding of guardian angels or just angels in general. He’s starting to feel like there’s a lot he might need to know, and a lot he should know, like, yesterday. He grabs Mickey’s wrist. “Upstairs,” he says, under his breath. Only Liam seems to notice, waving one of his toys as Mickey follows him up the stairs.

Ian wedges the chair from the night before under the doorknob for some privacy. He sits down. He stands back up. He starts to pace. He vaguely realizes Mickey has laid down on his bed, is idly poking through his very secret porn stash that isn’t really all that secret, now that he thinks about it.

“Start from the beginning,” he finally says, turning to Mickey full of righteous purpose. He’s a little disappointed when Mickey merely quirks an eyebrow, but otherwise stays silent. “You’re my angel, right? That means you have to do what I say.”

That, at least, gets him a snort, another incredulous eyebrow, and a shift into a slightly less relaxed pose. “It really doesn’t. And you’re going to have to be more specific, jerkass.”

“That, right there. Are angels really allowed to say shit like that? Am I allowed to say shit like that in front of you? Am I about to be struck by lightning? Or if you’ve been following me around my whole life, has it all been building up and will it all hit at the same time when I die? And if that’s the case what’s even the point of trying to live decent from here on out? I should just go rob a bank.”

Ian finally turns back to Mickey, realizes he’s been pacing for most of his impromptu speech, doesn’t really think he cares because, hi, he’s kind of freaking out right now.

“You done?” Mickey’s still looking at him like he’s the biggest inconvenience his angel has ever had to deal with in the however long he’s been around. And if that’s the case, he’d like to introduce him to a few people. “Cussing isn’t a big deal. Obviously, I can’t take the big Guy’s name in vein or whatever, and neither should you. Nobody’s getting struck by lightning, now or later. And you’re not robbing any fucking banks, man. You’re not supposed to do any of that crazy shit when you’re on your meds.”

“So, you know about that, too.”

“‘Course I do. Celestial being, remember? Fuck. What’s a guy gotta do to get a cigarette around here?”

“You smoke?” Ian asks, though why he bothered to be surprised at this point he had no idea. He crosses the room to his bedside table, rifling through until he finds a half-empty carton and a lighter. 

“Hey, thanks, man.”

Ian watches Mickey light up, not even tempted to tell him to move to the window. He’s once again struck by how attractive the angel actually is. Ian follows the line of this wing from where it rests on his bed up, up ,up to his broad shoulders and down again to his muscled arms, his skin pale and clear, if a bit dirty. His fingers are long and graceful looking, but there’s strength there, too, as there is everywhere else. His lips are bright against his face. His eyes, though. His eyes are blue, and frosty, like the waters of Lake Michigan, if those waters were ever so clear and annoyed while glaring at him from across the room.

“What?”

“Do I have something on my face, man?”

“Yeah, you’re filthy actually. Ever heard of a shower?” And then Ian realizes, “Wait so, do you watch me when I shower and stuff?” Emphasis on ‘and stuff’.

“No, man. Come on, who wants to see all that?”

“Oh.”

Ian’s at a loss, and without any input from Mickey, he finds himself watching the angel smoke again. Mickey doesn’t really seem to care what Ian gets up to, as pissed off as he’d seemed only a moment ago.

Distantly, Ian hears the front door slam, the clatter of the back door following closely after. Silence settles over the house, a surreal backdrop to Ian’s weirdest morning ever.

“So, what do angels do?”

Mickey glances at him, the tips of his wings shifting softly against each other. He takes another drag on the cigarette, blows the smoke in Ian’s general direction, then reaches over to stub the end out on the windowsill. 

“I’m your guardian angel. I do everything you do.” His tone of voice suggests that Ian is the biggest dumbass to have ever asked a question, but Ian refuses to give up.

“Okay, but do you just like follow me secret service style, or is it more like you can tell when I’m about to die or something and just mojo yourself there?”

Mickey’s glaring again. If he’s been around for most of (all of?) Ian’s life, he should be used to his curiosity. It’s not like this is anything new for him. “I follow you if I’m bored, but if I’m not around I can still find you if you need me. I hang out at the Kash ‘n Grab a lot. If I could get fat I prolly would’ve blown up by now, all the Pringles I’ve been eating.”

Ian laughs. “Linda thinks someone just figured out all of the camera angles. She keeps changing them. Won’t even let me check the feeds anymore.”

Mickey shrugs, unrepentant. “Dude’s gotta eat.”

“You’re an angel, though. Why would you have to eat? You realize that literally none of this makes sense, right?”

“Not my fuckin’ fault, man.” Mickey sighs. “You could’ve just stayed asleep, I would’ve killed your rat’s nest, and we all would’ve continued on with our lives. You’re gonna be late for work, you know.”

“Shit!” Mickey’s right of course. Ian’s got a shift in twenty minutes and he hasn’t showered or anything. Linda’s going to be pissed.

He drops his shirt and toes off his socks on the way into the bathroom, drops trou while he flicks the faucet on. It’s possibly the coldest, quickest shower of his short life, but he’s mostly clean and he gargles mouthwash on the way back to his bedroom.

Mickey’s still lounging in his bed, but with his mouth full, it’s kind of hard to say anything. He finds pants and a shirt that looks clean and is probably his. Ian shoves his boots on his feet, pauses long enough to spit his mouthwash into the bathroom sink, and clomps his way down the stairs to grab a piece of bread on his way out the door.

He’s throwing on his winter coat before he thinks to check on Mickey, who’s nowhere to be seen. Still, he calls out “I’m leaving!” He gets an affirmative from Fiona, but nothing from Mickey.

He shrugs, throws open the back door. Mickey’s standing on the back steps, wingless. “Took you long enough,” he says. Ian grins into his coat, shoves his hands into his pockets. He forgot his gloves. If he keeps it up, he’s likely to lose a finger this winter.

Mickey walks along beside him, dressed comfortably for the weather, though Ian has no idea where he got the clothes. Mickey doesn’t say anything and Ian can’t decide what to say. He’s got a million questions, still, and a grumpy angel whose ears are steadily turning pink in the cold.

This is honestly the weirdest fucking day.

Ian wonders if he should tell Mandy about this whole thing, get an outside perspective. She’s the least likely of anyone he knows to tell Lip or Fiona that he’s having some sort of psychotic break, and they’ve known each other long enough she’s likely to not laugh at his face about it.

Or, more accurately, she’ll laugh in his face and then actually give some fucking insight.

Ian glances at Mickey. Without the wings, he looks like any other southsider, maybe one from one of the rougher families. He could almost be Mandy’s brother, if Ian didn’t already know that all of her brothers were ugly as shit. Mandy clearly took after her mother. Ian wonders how angels came about. Probably birthed from God’s forehead, Greek style. 

Soon enough, Ian’s rushing into the store, apologizing to Linda, yes he’s sorry, no he won’t oversleep again, yes he’s very grateful that she gave him his job back after Kash took off and then he took off and yes he’s a sorry excuse for a man, not that that’s saying anything and yes he’d like to keep his job, thank you so much, Linda.

A million and one apologies and Linda’s finally out the door, baby on her hip and her little monsters leading the way, off to soccer practice. Or Islam school. Or both.

Mickey’s chuckling at him from the corner, crunching obnoxiously on Pringles. Ian’s got half a mind to steal them back, but he doesn’t want Linda thinking he actually stole them in the first place. She’s suspicious enough as it is. If he told her it was his guardian angel stealing from her store, she’d probably think he was just trying to insult her religion and he’d still end up fired.

He’ll let Mickey keep the damn Pringles.

But the store’s empty, which means there’s no need to ignore him completely.

“Can you tell me about my family?”

Mickey raises a disbelieving eyebrow. “You live with your family, numbnuts. You know all about them.”

Scoffing, Ian replies, “I meant my dead family. In heaven. Where you’re from, presumably.”

“How the fuck would I know?”

“Well, what about pets?”

“The fuck does that mean?” Mickey reaches the end of his can, stands and plucks another off the shelf. He rips into the plastic, crunching obnoxiously as he stares Ian down from his perch on the counter near the register.

“Just tell me something. There’s a God? What does he do?”

“The fuck does it matter, man?”

Seriously? It fucking matters because he just got his life and belief system flipped upside down and literally the only person who could tell him anything is refusing to tell him jack shit.

“Fine, whatever. You can’t tell me? You’re probably not even real. Don’t know what I was even worried about.”

Mickey laughs. It’s not a nice sound, kind of sounds like he’s choking on glass. “Whatever you say, Hotshot.” Ian makes up his mind right then and there that he’s not going to pay any mind to his so-called angel.

He’ll just have to ignore him until he goes away.

A week ought to do it, right?

His eyes wander back to Mickey’s corner before he wrenches them away again. Ian moves to go stock the shelves, tidy whatever needs tidying.

This might be a long week.

\--

Mickey doesn’t get with the program until they’re walking back home that night.

“Hey, you got a cig?” he asks.

Ian reaches into his pocket and takes one from his nearly empty box. And then, before Mickey can say anything, he puts it in his own mouth, lights it, and blows the smoke in Mickey’s general direction. Doesn’t say a word. Is pretty proud of himself too, until Mickey starts laughing at him.

“You ignorin’ me, Gallagher,” he says. It’s supposed to be a question, Ian’s pretty sure, but Mickey’s tone of voice is flat, would be dangerous on anyone else. Mickey’s supposed job is to protect him, though, so it’s not like Ian’s worried. “Think you’re real cute, huh? Know who gives silent treatments? Pussies. And fags, probably.”

Ian’s pretty sure that last part was aimed at him specifically, but it’s not like he’s never been called that before, and if Mickey knew about the bipolar thing, he definitely knows about the gay thing. Mickey’s got access to all his dirty laundry. Regardless, he’s been called worse, by Lip or Mandy, or any number of strangers who probably didn’t even know he liked dick.

It still kind of hurt, though not enough for Ian to break his self-asserted silence.

“Whatever, man. Do what you want.”

Ian takes another drag of the cigarette to hide his smile, continues walking toward the Gallagher residence. As he unlocks the door, he wonders idly if there’s a place Mickey calls home. He’ll have to start writing down his questions. Just in case.

He’d never been a boy scout, but he’s definitely a fan of always being prepared.

“Ian’s home!”

“Ian! Ian!” Liam runs up, grabs his legs. Ian laughs, hugs him close.

Liam looks over Ian’s shoulder and waves at Mickey. Ian, uncomfortable for reasons he doesn’t want to examine yet, turns away when he sees Mickey wave back.

Fiona calls him into the kitchen to talk about work while she finishes dinner prep. He washes his hands and goes to help, chatting with her and Lip about their days, which bills need to be paid, who’s got dibs on the bathroom after dinner and who’s already called dibs on first shower for tomorrow morning.

Mickey sits at the kitchen table, rolling his eyes every so often and glaring at the washing machine. Ian tries not to watch him too closely, but it’s hard, way too hard. Mickey’s like a kid someone forced to eat his vegetables or sit in timeout until he could behave with the other kids. It’s adorable. He’s never going to last a whole week. He should maybe consider making an appointment with his therapist.

\--

The next morning is loud, as per usual for the Gallaghers. Mickey’s curled up in the windowsill when he wakes. Their eyes meet for a brief moment before Ian goes to wash up and get ready for work. Mickey’s there when he walks the short few blocks to the store and Mickey’s there when he steals a donut from the display case and Mickey’s there when he comes back from the bathroom.

Ian notices that Mickey hasn’t eaten anything since the chips yesterday, wonders how often angels actually need to eat, or if Mickey just really likes barbecue that much. That’s another question he still doesn’t have an answer to.

By the time Ian’s ready to leave, Mickey’s looking less like a sulky child and more like someone’s kicked puppy. They make it home in silence. Ian feels nauseous, guilt sitting like a heavy boulder in his stomach. He’s also annoyed with himself for feeling guilty at all. Isn’t Mickey imaginary? Isn’t that what he’d decided?

“Hey, Ian. Dinner’s ready! Come sit down.”

Ian discards his outer coat on the hook and sits down at the table. As he does, he catches sight of Mickey in the living room, looking at some papers on the coffee table, next to the crayons. Liam’s work, probably.

A smile, barely there, but incredibly present, appears on Mickey’s face. Ian finds himself caught on it, on the soft expression, the relaxed set of his shoulders. He can’t keep ignoring Mickey. Two days is his limit, that’s fine. He’ll say something after dinner, when Fiona isn’t looking at him like he’s about to leap from the table and burst into song. He’s got to remember to call his doctor tomorrow morning.

“Ian, are you paying attention?” Debbie’s looking at him. Actually everyone—Fiona, Carl, Debbie, and Liam—are all looking at him.

“Sorry, no. Didn’t get a lot of sleep last night. What’s up, Debs?”

“Are you not sleeping, Ian?” Fiona asks, in the tone of voice she uses to convey both Big Sister and Mom-adjacent. “If you’re having side-effects from your meds, you need to say something.”

“It’s not that! I’ve just been thinking about things. It’s only been a couple of nights, Fi. Don’t worry. What were you saying, Debs?”

Only he doesn’t hear the rest of the conversation, not really. He thinks he hears Debbie talking about a boy she’d met that afternoon, and he thinks he hears Fiona asking Carl about his relationship status. His eyes catch Mickey’s, for only a second, and he’s stuck again. He spends the rest of the meal robotically eating, watching Mickey. He watches, watches, watches.

And, when he can safely sneak upstairs, he’s annoyed to find that Mickey hasn’t followed him, and he can’t exactly go back downstairs without drawing attention.

He brushes his teeth, changes for bed. Lies down. Thinks about Mickey, about how ridiculous this whole thing is. Thinks about how he’s going to explain why he’d been ignoring him this whole time, if he even can. Wants to tell him that he’d half hoped if he ignored Mickey, that he’d stop seeing him. Wants to tell him he’s glad he didn’t disappear. Wants to tell him he’s cute when he sulks. He just really wants to talk to him.

At some point in the last two days, he’s apparently decided to trust that Mickey’s legit, but it hasn’t really hit him that he has an actual bonafide angel dedicated to his personal safety. What is he supposed to even do with that information?

Eventually, Carl comes to bed, followed by Mickey. Ian figures it’s a testament to how much he’s fucked up, if Mickey’s going to avoid him like this. Mickey doesn’t even look at him, heads straight to the windowsill and curls into a ball. Ian turns to lay on his back. He’d thought, maybe, that Mickey might be used to not interacting with anyone, since Ian’s never been able to see him before. It hits him that Mickey might actually be upset.

Ian’s been kind of a dick, probably. Yeah, he wants to know things, and he’s concerned for his own mental health, but he probably could have gone about this whole thing better.

Carl eventually settles down, and Ian waits impatiently for his breathing to even out. When it sounds like his brother is actually asleep, Ian sits up, whispers, “Carl?” No response. He turns to the window, ready to say something, only.

Mickey’s gone. Fuck.

\--

The next morning, Ian wakes and Mickey’s nowhere to be seen. He wonders if he’d actually made the whole thing up. Wonders if he needs to go see his shrink after all. Wonders, wonders, doesn’t do anything.

He’d just finally come to grips with everything and now Mickey’s just fucking gone? Now, he’s just pissed off.

He heads to work on time, gets there ten minutes early because he practically charges the whole way. Linda’s happy to see him, at least. Doesn’t even mind him clocking in early.

“Did you even eat this morning? Get a donut, will you? I don’t need you passing out behind the counter.” Linda’s actually pretty caring, once you get past the constant nagging. Ian figures Kash had probably missed that part in his attempts to appear straight for his family.

He does as she says, though, grabs one with pink icing and sprinkles. Sits himself behind the counter to eat it and stew in his anger. A few customers come in, buy something, trade in recyclables for smokes and beer. It’s a pretty slow day, which isn’t actually helping Ian’s mood.

At a quarter past twelve, right as Ian’s considering taking his lunch break, Mickey walks in the door. He’s covered in dirt, more than he was yesterday. His hair is sticking up more than usual too. He’s wearing clothes Ian hasn’t yet seen, and when he walks into the store, his eyes go straight to Ian.

Mickey saunters up to the counter, picks up a Snickers bar. “Still not gonna say anything, Gallagher?”

Ian glances at the camera newly aimed at the register, then back to Mickey. What is he doing? 

Mickey laughs. “Cat got your tongue, Gallagher?” Ian ducks in time to avoid a partially eaten candy bar to the face.

“What the fuck, man?” he says, his mouth near the counter where it hopefully won’t be picked up by the cameras.

“He speaks!” Mickey crows in response, throwing his arms into the air. Ian stares. There’s something weird about the way Mickey’s moving, like he’s heavier, somehow. Mickey looks back at Ian, gestures to his body as if Ian hasn’t already spent enough time staring at him through his clothes. “Whaddaya think? Looks like the real deal, right?”

Ian can actively feel his face scrunching up in confusion. “What’s the real deal, man? Are you a real boy now?”

Mickey, to his astonishment, ducks his head, shrugs like it’s no big deal, then says, “Yeah, I am. Temporarily, anyway.” His ears pink up and Ian has literally never seen anything cuter, oh my god. “Hey, what’d I say about the big Guy’s name, man? Knock it off.”

“Sorry,” he says. Then, “Wait, you can hear my thoughts?”

“Nah, man, fuck off. Just the big stuff.”

Ian smiles despite himself. He looks at Mickey, really looks at him again. He does look heavier, but also weirdly lighter, like his center of gravity has shifted. It probably has, he realizes, those wings must’ve been really fucking heavy. His skin is still clear, under the dirt, but he doesn’t look as… glowy as he had before. Fuck it, he looks more human.

“You look good, Mickey,” he says.

Mickey scoffs. “Fuck off, man.”

Ian hasn’t actually apologized yet, but he feels like it might be too much now. “I was about to take my lunch break. Wanna come with?”

Mickey shrugs again, slouches against the counter. “Bring the Pringles, I’ll follow.”

Ian laughs. “Can I ask an angel question?”

“Man, whatever.” But Mickey still lets Ian lock up the store, follows him to the back room to sit at the crappy card table and metal fold out chairs. Still eats the Pringles Ian rolls across to him.

“So.” Ian says.

Mickey sighs, burps. Sets down the can with a light clink against the tabletop. “Lay it on me, Hotshot.”

Ian feels like he’s won a prize, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jeff & Co did Linda dirty and I will never forgive <3


	3. Itherael

“You gonna ask me your questions, or you gonna just sit there?” Mickey looks at Ian, perpetual scowl present on his face. They’ve been sitting in silence for way too long. Ian just can’t bring himself to voice any of his questions, because. Well. Where the Hell should he start? Certainly not by questioning Mickey’s sudden openness.

“How did you end up mine?” It’s a dumb question, way too vague, and it’s not really even what he wants to ask. Mickey answers anyway.

“You made it to the top of the list. Congratulations. I just happened to be the next angel in line, waiting to get placed.”

“There’s a list? Does God check it twice?” He can feel the grin edging at the corners of his lips, but Mickey doesn’t really seem amused.

“It’s more like organ donation than Santa and the elves.”

Ian’s got a few words to say about the parallels between the two, but he manages to hold back his comments, somehow. “So who gets on the list in the first place?”

Mickey sighs, long-suffering. “Pretty much anyone who’s going to have a rough time in their human lives. Potential angel candidates get guardians too, because their souls are pretty powerful and could do some damage if anyone actually bothered to figure out how to harness that shit. They usually end up toward the top. The other top slots are reserved for the short-lived and other miserable fucks.”

Ian’s kind of regretting getting that answer, honestly. The short-lived and the miserable? He doesn’t really want to guess which category he falls under. After all, he’s relatively content with his lot--he could do without the gay stigma, the abusive, alcoholic father, the crushing poverty, etc. But he’s got his family, and he’s got Mandy. Oh God, Mandy. If anyone deserved someone watching over them, she should be at the top of the list.

“Hey! I told you to quit with that shit!”

“Sorry.”

Mickey scoffs, digs out another Pringle. Chomps obnoxiously, waiting for Ian’s next question. Ian’s brain is kind of stuck on a loop at the moment, but he does his best to oblige. “So, uh, angels don’t… I mean, they, like. You were human?”

Mickey swallows his chip, looks thoughtful. “Yeah, briefly. There was some kind of problem with my parents; I was stillborn. And to answer your other question, yes, angels do fuck, and have kids. They just do it a lot less than humans.”

“So, you’re telling me it’s been awhile since you got laid.”

Mickey, to Ian’s eternal delight, immediately turns bright pink. His gaze shifts away, embarrassed, and he clears his throat. “Yeah, something like that.”

“Are you…?”

“Shut the fuck up.”

Mickey looks like he longs for the power to shoot lasers from his eyes, the way he’s glaring at Ian. Still, Ian can’t bring himself to mind.

Mickey’s a virgin! Holy shit!

Ian kind of wants to explore that train of thought some more, kind of wants to go back to the answer he’s still kind of thinking about in the back of his head. “Hey, so, do you know when I’m supposed to die?” He decides immediately that, no, he doesn’t actually want the answer to that question.

“I’m not actually God, shitface.” Mickey shoves another couple of Pringles in his mouth. Ian’s honestly a little turned on. He’s a gay teenager though; it’s not that unusual.

“It’s like this, man.” Mickey pauses to burp. Ian is charmed. “I’ve got maybe a five minute warning if you’re in any kind of immediate, life-threatening danger. There’s a couple angels upstairs prolly know when you’re gonna be done in for real, but they don’t tell those of us on the ground.”

Ian considers that. He kind of guesses that if he knew his charge was going to die somewhere down the line, he might be less diligent about his job in the now, less focused. He kind of wonders how the angels manage to not get emotionally attached to their humans. Based on Mickey’s reaction yesterday, Ian’s acknowledgement meant a lot more to him than he’d ever say out loud.

“Your lunch break’s almost over, man.”

“Yeah.” Ian stands from his chair, turns to leave, stops. “Are you going to hang out here? I mean, if you’re visible now, and all.”

“Yeah, I’ll just hang out in the shop.”

Ian leads the way into the shop, unlocks the door, flips the sign to open. Mickey pulls up a stool next to the register. Ian takes his place behind the counter. The silence is deafening for approximately five seconds before Ian can’t take it anymore.

“So, I gotta ask.” Ian bites his lip, darts his eyes to Mickey, then away quickly. “How are you… this? Right now. Visible.”

Mickey tilts his head, moves his gaze to the ceiling. Studies the uninteresting water-stains patchworking the formerly white surface. Eventually, he says, “Magic.” And then he stops, as if he thinks that’s a sufficient answer.

Well, fine, now he can deal with another million questions.

“No, but, well, I mean I thought your powers were pretty much directed at being able to help me out? So, like, are they actually more multi-purpose? Like can you create anything, change anything? What about physics? And are they exhaustible? Is that why you’re always eating your chips, to keep up with your magic? And where do your wings go, I mean I’ve seen them disappear before, but where are they? Are they detachable? Holy shit, Mickey, did you rip off your wings?”

Here, he stops, because he kind of doesn’t want to continue that train of thought, and it seems like that might’ve been enough questions to ask, judging from the look on Mickey’s face. The angel opens his mouth to answer, stops when the doorbell chimes.

“Afternoon, Ian.” Linda says, leading her boys through the shop to the stairs at the back. “Ian’s friend.” Linda quirks an eyebrow at Ian but says nothing about his distinct lack of male friends that usually hang around. The only guy he ever fucks around with anymore is Ned, and Ian doesn’t bring him around for obvious reasons.

“Oh shit.” He’s got a date tonight. “I’ve got a date tonight.” With Ned. “With a guy.”

He glances at Mickey, who looks pretty unperturbed. “Yeah, so?”

“I’ll probably have sex with him.”

Mickey scrunches his nose. “Yeah. So?”

“Mickey, people can see you now.”

“No shit, asshole.” Mickey rolls his eyes, as if what he’s saying should be obvious to Ian. Maybe it should. “I can still go Invisible Man, whenever. I’m just tangible now. And who said I was coming with you in the first place?”

Ian swallows the disappointment that wants to rise in his throat. “Yeah, right. Obviously.”

Mickey rolls his eyes again, reaches into the Pringles tube. “Fuck, it’s empty.”

Ian sighs. It’s gonna be a long day.


	4. Raguel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My computer fully died, so now I have a brand new shiny toy to play with and I'm out an entire paycheck. Fare thee well into that long night, my sweet, sweet hardware. Rest in peace.

Ian meets Ned at the L station. His date has dressed down from his normal attire. Instead of a suit, Ned's wearing khaki slacks with a white oxford tucked into the waistband. He'd rolled up his sleeves to the elbows to show off his well-toned forearms. Ian hasn't owned khakis in years, avoids wearing button-down shirts whenever he can. Today, he'd put on his best pair of hand-me-down jeans and a shirt with fewer than three noticeable holes.

(He’d been planning to wear a shirt with no holes, but Mickey had said this one made his eyes pop more and, well.)

As Ned leads him toward a charming, upscale bistro Ian allows his attention to drift to passers-by. There's a sign in front of the shop advertising half-off mimosas. He spots a man chatting with someone near the front entrance, about the same build as Mickey. Similar dark hair, same fair skin. He probably burned like crazy in the hot Chicago summer. Mickey's skin was so fair. Ian wondered if he had to wear sunscreen, or if that kind of thing was a no-brainer for an angel. The guy turns to laugh at something and Ian gets a good look at his face. His gut clenches with disappointment. He hadn't realized he'd been looking for Mickey. Ned gets to the end of a story he'd been apparently telling for quite a while. Ian makes half-hearted noises of interest until they get to the host counter. He tries his best to focus, after that.

He’s not very successful. 

Ian finds himself distracted throughout the rest of their date. He can't muster up more than the barest enthusiasm for Ned. He's bored; there isn't another word for it. He's bored, and he's missing Mickey. When Ned suggests that they head back to his hotel, Ian almost says no. He's not feeling good about this; he doesn't want to spend even more time listening to Ned. And yet. Usually he likes Ned, likes his snarky jokes and his work anecdotes. The older man has a dry sense of humor, and knowledge that Ian is sometimes jealous of. They usually manage to have a good time. Is Ian supposed to let Mickey (or the idea of Mickey) ruin that for him? Ian’s neither excited nor unwilling. He can feel the buzz of not having gotten off for a few days in the back of his head, making his body tense and aroused. Yeah, he's going to go back with Ned to his hotel. Later, he can go home and cry. He allows Ned’s hand on his lower back (Northsiders don’t care about that kind of thing, so much). Ned pays for the tab, then leads him to the entrance.

Which is when he sees the real Mickey.

And all Hell breaks loose.

“Um, Ned. Maybe we shouldn’t today. I just realized I’ve got a shift in the morning, and Linda will kill me if I go in late again…”

Ned turns to look at him right as Mickey finishes his approach. He opens his mouth, only to get cut off by Mickey’s fist coming from literally out of nowhere. Literally. Ian feels like he blinked and Ned was suddenly on the ground and Mickey’s just standing there, breathing a little hard and frown set in his face and, _has he been drinking?_ Angels can get drunk? He wipes the corner of his mouth on the back of his hand, takes a step away, comes back to spit on Ned, who’s still laying on the concrete, clutching his face and moaning a bit pitifully. Ian stares at Mickey, helplessly turned on, incredibly confused.

Someone starts shouting behind him, and Ian remembers they’re in the _Northside_ and Mickey’s dressed like some street thug and beating up wealthy middle aged white men and _fuck_ maybe they should take this someplace else. He grabs Mickey’s hand. “Follow me,” he says. Then he runs. He doesn’t hang on to Mickey’s arm, because that would only slow them down and also only rarely looks good in movies. He kind of wants to, though. A little.

When they finally come to a stop a few blocks from the L, Ian’s panting lightly. Mickey, the bastard, still doesn’t look like he’s breathing all that hard, looked like it was more of an effort after he’d hit Ned. He’s got a smile on his face, genuinely happy looking, and he looks like he’s got no weight on his shoulders. He’s beautiful. Still.

“What the fuck was that, back there?”

Mickey looks him right in the face. And shrugs. Then he starts laughing. “I just punched a guy,” he says, as if Ian weren’t there to see him knock Ned flat on his ass. Ian can feel his body reacting to the memory, to the way Mickey looks right now, flushed cheeks and eyes bright. He’s got blood on his hand, and his tank top is dirty beneath his second-hand jacket.

He’s a teenage boy, okay, he’s got a healthy libido.

Mickey’s still laughing, and Ian feels lighter than he has in months, lighter even than the last time he got high under the tracks with Lip on some _really good shit._

Ian shakes his head; he’s not going to get any straight answers from Mickey right now, probably.

“Come on,” he sighs. “Let’s get you home, take a look at that hand.”

So Ian takes him home, and takes care of his hand, and it’s fine.

...

He’s not entirely sure why, but things change between them after that. Mickey touches him more easily, and they snark at each other more than ever, but it’s comfortable. More comfortable than he is around Lip, or the rest of his family, or any of his other hookups.

Ned doesn’t call him. Ian knows he should probably feel bad about that. He doesn’t.

...

Ian spends the next few weeks getting to know Mickey’s likes, his dislikes. They argue over stupid action flicks. Ian talks to Mickey about his diagnosis, about how it’d changed things for him. About what he’d wanted for his life, before. Things he’s only told his therapist. Things he should probably have told someone years ago. Things he’d like to say to his family now.

He also starts spending a lot of alone time shut up in the bathroom, but that’s neither here nor there.

…

"Stop it."

Ian snorts, flicking another paper ball at Mickey's still frame.

"Don't you have something to stock, Gallagher?"

Ian shakes his head, doesn't bother to answer otherwise. It's a slow day, has been a slow week. Mickey holds more of Ian’s interest in his little finger than every item in this store combined. Mickey opens his eyes, eyebrows lifting in a very clearly unimpressed expression. Ian couldn't stop his grin if he tried.

"Aw, come on, Mick. I'm bored. Help me not be bored."

Mickey scoffs, but moves into a slouch, facing Ian. "Some of us have to work, you know."

Ian cocks his head, interested. Mickey doesn't usually want to talk about Heaven.

"What are you working on? You're just sitting there."

Mickey rolls his eyes so hard he ends up cracking his neck, rolls his head to the other side to even out the stretch. Ian kind of wants to reach up and dig his fingers into Mickey's shoulders, squeeze some of that tension out through his hands. Mickey probably wouldn't be into that, though.

"It’s called meditation, jackass. It's tedious, but I have to be aware of everything happening upstairs. Can't do that unless I get a few moments of peace and quiet every now and again."

“Tedious, huh?”

“The emphasis was actually on ‘peace and quiet’.”

Ian would swear on his dying day the expression on his face was not a pout.

Mickey sighs, leans back on his palms. "Alright, Gallagher, let's get you not bored."

…

On a chilly night mid-November, they climb up to the top floor of an abandoned condominium. They brought a six-pack, and a joint to share, and two blankets. They cuddle up close under the stars, and Ian bites his tongue to avoid pointing out how date-like the scenario seems.

“I was stillborn,” Mickey tells him, after they’re each on their second beer. Ian feels a prickle of remembrance at the back of his mind, weeks old, when Mickey had just barely begun opening up. The joint’s half gone, and they’re both feeling pretty relaxed, if a bit chilled. Ian scoots closer to Mickey, both for the warmth and because he can’t quite hear what his angel is saying.

“There’s this thing, called a soulprint? It’s like a memory, only a fucked up one that’s not really mine. Kind of a mental photograph.” He takes a swallow of his beer, grimaces at the warmth. “Family of five. All dark hair, most with blue eyes. Pale skin. Ukrainian.” He tilts his head to the side, cracks his neck. Stares into his beer, sighs. “Would’ve been mine.”

And Ian gets it, kind of. He’d had an idea of what his life could’ve been, back when he met his real father, a couple of years ago. Like a vision, almost, but not solid, and most important of all, not his.

“I died before my mom even went into labor,” Mickey continues. “She barely survived the birth. Went on to have another kid. She’s the only one that’s upstairs, yet.”

Ian’s surprised on some level. He knew Mickey had to be young, but being an angel, he’d expected him to be ‘young’ as in ‘oh, only two hundred years, or so’.

“How… how old are you?

Mickey laughs, takes another swallow. Ian watches his throat move, lets himself be distracted for a moment. “Probably only a few years older than you, but it works different upstairs. My first memories, I was already the handsome fucker you see before you. Started guardian-training that first day, but I think that first day probably lasted two or three weeks down here.”

Wow. That’s a lot to absorb. He kind of wonders what it’s like for angels that die having human memories, if they just age or de-age to a specific point, and whether or not they get to keep their memories.

“Have you met her?”

Mickey shakes his head, doesn’t even bother questioning which ‘her’ he meant. Ian figures he’s reached his limit, won’t say anything more tonight. So, he’s surprised when Mickey keeps talking after all.

“There’s pretty strict rules for speaking to souls in Heaven, actually. Whole place is a bureaucracy, the paperwork’s a nightmare. And especially as a Guardian, they put all kinds of restrictions on that shit. I’d get like, one visit, for as long as I wanted, and then I’d never get to see her again.”

Ian feels so much sadness for this boy, so cocky and such a wiseass, but secretly so sweet and caring and maybe just a little bit lonely.

“I’m sorry,” he says. It’s a stupid phrase, inadequate for all the feelings swirling around in his brain right now. Still. “It sounds like a lousy policy.”

Mickey barks out a laugh, the sound startling in the quiet night. He sways a bit with the force of it, turned into a lightweight with his brand new body. “You’ve got no idea.”

The rest of the night is quiet. They talk about small things, inconsequential things. It’s around midnight when Ian finally wraps his fingers around Mickey’s. He’s talking about Lip, telling Mickey about a time when they were small, and the memories are blurry now, but he swears, he _swears_ that Lip’s response had eventually been to flash his teacher. He’s laughing, and Mickey’s laughing, and it just seems like the right time to do it. Mickey doesn’t say anything, rearranges their hands to twine their fingers together.

Ian’s cheeks hurt from smiling so much. He’s kind of too happy to care, though.

It occurs to Ian that Mickey’s basically his best friend.

Ian quietly considers the benefits of loving an angel.

…

"Wanna go to the baseball field?"

"Not really."

It's Ian's day off and he feels… not much of anything. Directionless is a good word. Not depressed, not like he knows he can be, like he was before. Just, low. Mickey's been pestering him for about half an hour before he finally rolls over and faces his angel. There's no pity, like Fiona and Lip always show when they check on him. There's a little bit of worry there, nothing unexpected in that. A little boredom, even, which is enough to make something unclench in Ian's chest.

"I don't really want to, today," he says, quiet, like the words could melt back into him. Mickey looks at him for a moment longer, then, without another word, he slips out of his shoes and jacket, and comes to lay down on Ian's bed with him.

Ian doesn't say anything, and Mickey doesn't break the silence either. Eventually he drifts off, and when he wakes, his chest is light, his pillows are warm, and his angel is asleep beside him.

...

Life goes on. Until it doesn’t.

Mickey follows Ian to the store every single day. And every single day Ian finds himself distracted by Mickey’s smile, his hands, his hair. Two weeks after their rooftop not-date, Mickey brings Ian lunch, proudly showing off his new knuckle tattoos.

“Fuck you up?” Ian says when he gets Mickey still long enough to let him take a look. His angel is grinning, mischievous. He looks like a little kid, Ian can’t really get enough.

“You like? The guy that did ‘em had this huge fuckin’ bolt through his eyebrow man, I mean, _holy shit!_ ” He holds his hands up about a foot apart from each other, catches Ian’s eye, waggles his brows. Ian knows, he knows that Mickey is just fooling around to get a rise out of him, but he can’t help it. Something about the way his whole face lights up, the way he’s just so undeniably happy, makes Ian start giggling and guffawing like a couple of dumb kids, and soon they’re holding each other up, laughing for no reason.

Ian doesn’t think he’s been this happy since… since he can remember, at least.

And that’s when Mandy walks through the door.

“Hey, Fuckface.”

Ian’s already smiling when he turns to see her, and there’s not even a breath between that and picking her up in a giant bear-hug. “Mandy! I want you to meet somebody.”

He turns back to Mickey, still holding Mandy close. It takes him a moment to get it once he sees the look on Mickey’s face. In his defense, he’s never thought of Mandy as Ukranian, has rarely seen her father, isn’t sure how many brothers she has, most days. He remembers thinking that they looked similar, but he didn’t actually think it was possible. It’s not like Mickey told him he was supposed to be a Milkovich.

Mickey looks absolutely gutted, staring at her, fists clenching at his sides and eyebrows scrunched together in a line down the middle. It’s kind of adorable, but also fucking heartbreaking. He probably pauses too long, thinking over all of this, because when he turns back to Mandy she looks more annoyed than she did when she first walked in.

“Well? I don’t see you in weeks and now you can’t finish an introduction? Jesus, Ian.”

Mickey makes a choking noise but doesn’t say anything.

Mandy arches a single, thin brow, rolls her eyes, then waves her hand. “It’s cool, I get it. I’ll let you get back to your new boy, but I swear to god, you owe me several days’ worth of best friend time, you jerk.”

Ian smiles, grateful. Doesn’t turn to see how Mickey had taken the insinuation that they were a ‘they’. He waves to Mandy as she leaves, even though she doesn’t turn back. Suddenly, he doesn’t feel so much like laughing anymore.

When he does turn around, Mickey is standing in the same place, staring down at the grimy floor, one hand fidgeting with his sleeve, the other rubbing against his bottom lip. He looks lost.

Ian isn’t really thinking when he wraps his arms around him.

Mickey doesn’t push him away, though Ian had half expected him to. Instead, Mickey leans his weight in toward Ian, rubbing his face into Ian’s shirt and trying to come to grips with the fact that he just met his _sister_ and all he could do was stare.

“It’s fine, Mick,” Ian says. He presses his face closer to Mickey’s, ignoring the way his skin feels flushed, like he’s trying not to cry. “Everything’s going to be fine.”

He really hopes he isn’t lying. Ian gets off shift that night, right as the sun is starting to set. They grab a few nonessentials, bundle up in their winter coats, then head over to the abandoned condos they’ve claimed for themselves.

They aren’t speaking to each other, but Ian doesn’t feel like he’s being ignored either. Mostly, he’s just waiting on Mickey to decide whether or not he wants to talk about it.

…

Ian wakes up the next morning to an empty room. He can’t remember the last time he didn’t have Mickey curled up next to him, invisible by all rights. The absence leaves a weird feeling in his gut, but he shrugs it off. Liam’s probably awake and playing downstairs, and Mickey is probably in the bathroom or otherwise preparing for the day. 

He spends a few moments in bed, thinking about his guardian angel.

Ian still hasn’t worked up the courage to ask about his death again. He knows Mickey doesn’t know when, exactly he’s supposed to go. He might know how, though. Or what’ll happen to Mickey himself when Ian kicks it. Mickey will probably get reassigned, though Ian doesn’t know if angels are allowed vacation days or time off between assignments. It’s terrifying to think that this could be the day everything ends for him, and he might never see his family or Mickey again. 

He thinks, maybe he’s better off not knowing. It might drive him insane, but he also doesn’t want to think about having some kind of cosmic countdown weighing over him.

Ian decides that he has had way too much introspection for one morning.

Following that, he gets up, gets dressed, and heads downstairs. Mickey isn’t in the kitchen or the bathroom like he’d thought, but Ian still isn’t worried. He’d had kind of a rough day yesterday. They’d ended up staying up half the night staring at the stars and smoking. Ian can’t really complain, because there’s honestly not much he enjoys more these days than spending time with Mickey. He kind of wishes he’d managed to get his angel to actually talk to him, at the very least let him know he’s okay emotionally.

Ian’s pretty confident that Mickey will show up when he’s ready to talk.

Out of boredom more than any real sense of hunger, Ian pours himself some cereal. It’s the weird off brand type with the raisins, but Ian prefers that to blander ‘healthy’ cereals Debbie sometimes finds coupons for. What’s a guy have to do to get some marshmallows in his breakfast? Liam’s playing with some beat up plastic trucks in the living room, so Ian takes a seat nearby and lets him entertain them both.

He’s so incredibly grateful that he gets to have this. There were days during his episodes even a year ago where he’d thought he’d just end things, be better off. He’d tried, once or twice, but he’d never gotten past the planning part. Now, he’s grateful for that, for his family, and for Mickey.

He’s so glad for Mickey.

He knows he’s happier since he met his angel face-to-face, can see it on his siblings’ faces when they ask him if he’s been seeing anyone. He should probably introduce them one of these days.

Mickey seems happier as well. He’s taken to exploring parts of the Southside when Ian has to work, dragging him to parks and the shoreline, and to abandoned buildings when they have a few hours with nothing to do. Ian thinks he might soon have enough money saved to buy some bus tickets, take Mickey to a baseball game, or maybe find a mountain that they can climb together.

Ian’s happiest, these days, when Mickey’s around. It hasn’t escaped his attention.

He kind of wonders if this is how everyone feels when they’re falling in love.

He hopes Mickey has the same feelings about him.

By the time Ian’s finished his breakfast and is ready to head into work, Mickey still hasn’t shown up. Ian’s a little concerned, but not enough to go looking. If Mickey needs him, he’ll just show up at the store, as usual. If not, he won’t stay gone for long. He never does.

For the second day in a row, Mandy comes to see him at the store.

“Hey, Shithead.”

Ian smirks. “Hey, you.”

She laughs, but Ian can still see the lingering hurt behind her eyes. He hadn’t called her the night before, too worried over Mickey’s reaction over meeting his long-lost sister. He’s been too obsessed with everything Mickey, these days, and he knows it. It’d be difficult to tell Mandy all of that, though.

In the first place, how the fuck would he explain who Mickey even is?

“Sorry I haven’t been around for a bit.” It’s not an explanation, and as far as apologies go, it’s kind of shit. Still, Mandy smiles, tilts her head, seems to consider him.

She must see something she likes, because all she says is, “Tonight. Bring a six pack. You can make it up to me by letting me pick the movie. And then I want to hear all about the guy you’ve been fucking to put that goofy-ass look on your face.”

Ian can feel the color blooming in his cheeks. He’s always been an ugly blusher. It’s the hair. “We’re not fucking,” he says.

She’s still laughing as she walks out of the door.

He doesn’t get five minutes alone with his thoughts before Linda comes through with her boys. They’re all in varying states of dress, their clothes freshly ironed and clean. Ian’s a little jealous; Linda might be a bit of a harpy, but no one will ever say that she doesn’t take care of those boys.

“Ian!” She’s glaring at him. He’s not really sure what he did, but it’s been a while since he’s been on this side of that glare. “I was going through the security tapes for this month, and I saw someone stealing snacks right in front of you! I thought we were clear on the ‘No taking inventory’ rule.”

Ian grimaces. He’d forgotten to take that into account when Mickey suddenly became corporeal. “Sorry Linda, we got caught in conversation and I forgot to charge him. Just take it from my paycheck, okay? He wasn’t trying to steal anything.”

Or, at least, he didn’t think of it as stealing. More that, he wasn’t a member of the population, so whatever happened to the economy and the people reliant upon the business done in their stores was irrelevant to him. Or so he’d said while stoned out of his mind and giggling more and more with every word.

Ian’s actually kind of glad that Mickey hasn’t shown up yet; he doubts Linda would just be leaving as calmly as she now is if Mickey had been here to antagonize her.

The feeling doesn’t last. The day passes uneventfully, and the end of his shift approaches with still no sight of his angel. Ian had started to worry about midway through, had considered calling his family to ask if they’d seen him hanging around the house. So far, he’s avoided staying at the Gallagher house as much as possible during the day, but Ian’s only got a limited number of places to check.

He spends the rest of the day being unproductive and wondering what he might have done to upset Mickey enough for him to disappear like this. He’s uncomfortably reminded of his first day with Mickey, how he’d reacted when he’d thought Mickey was just an illusion. (He never did call his therapist.) He thinks they’ve grown closer, doesn’t feel like Mickey would just up and disappear without a reason.

He’s not sure he really knows Mickey all that well, now that he thinks about it.

That night, he heads to Mandy’s place, wanting nothing more than to cancel on her, but knowing that he really can’t. He forces his worry to the side for a while, lets himself relax into Mandy’s blend of biting insults and dumb jokes. It works, a little. They have a good time together. Ian manages to convince himself Mickey will be waiting for him, smirk in place, once he gets back home. Lets himself be optimistic.

Midnight comes and goes. Mandy starts yawning and making noise about her shift the next day, and he says his goodnight eagerly enough. He goes home minus the six pack he’d started with, walking down deserted, scarcely lit streets, his fingers twitching with nerves. At the Gallagher abode, Mickey’s nowhere to be found; everyone else is asleep. 

Ian, lacking anything else to do, climbs the stairs and falls, exhausted, into bed. He spends the night tossing and turning, barely sleeping at all. The longer he stares at his ceiling, brooding, waiting, the more his eyes burn with tension and the near-overwhelming urge to cry.

When the sun comes up, Ian’s still alone.


	5. Sophia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My boss has me working 66 hours this week so I forgot what day it was, whoops. Fair warning, this chapter has some mild hurt/comfort and some loving sexy stuff, so.

Mickey is really gone.

Ian doesn’t know why, or where his angel is now. His absence is a strong contrast to what he’s grown used to, Mickey’s crude humor and finger tattoos and nonsensical observations about this world.

There’s absolutely no trace of Mickey in the following few days, no trace that Mickey was ever really there.

Ian can feel his composure slipping, sees the worried looks on his family’s faces. They don’t know about Mickey. They never even met human-Mickey. Ian had never explained and if he tries to now, well. It’s not an option.

…

A man comes into the Kash and Grab while Ian’s working the register. In the back of Ian’s mind, he registers that the man is attractive. His hair is close shaved, his shoulders are broad, and his smile flashes brilliant white teeth when their eyes meet.

Ian nods, goes back to scribbling on an old receipt. He’s worried, dammit. Mickey could’ve called by now or let him know where he was going before he’d disappeared. He’s been looking for blue eyes for days with no results. Lip’s started sleeping at the house again. Everything is falling apart.

Where the hell is Mickey?

…

In a fit of desperation, Ian makes an appointment at the free-clinic. The psychiatrist reassures him that, though he might feel some symptoms of a depressive episode, the meds he’s already taking will lessen the effects. She puts him back on antipsychotics when he tells her he’s been seeing angels but doesn’t seem too worried about him devolving. He leaves with the new prescription and an appointment for four weeks away.

Ian almost wishes she would tell him he’s finally just gone crazy.

…

Ian wakes up one morning to cloudy skies and thinks that it only makes sense that the weather has caught up to his mood.

He gets dressed by rote, snags an apple off the kitchen counter for breakfast, doesn’t bring an umbrella. By the time he gets to the store, he’s damp, his mood is still sour, and his hands are sticky with fruit juice.

Right as he’s settling onto his stool, a man comes in. Ian’s seen this guy every day for the past week or so. He showed up the day after Mickey disappeared, and every time he comes in he smiles at Ian, attempts some small talk while making his purchases, and then leaves.

Ian’s not sure if the guy is actually suspicious or if he’s just that desperate for answers, but he kind of feels like this guy knows something he shouldn’t. The timing is too perfect. And who comes into a corner store every morning?

He watches the guy browse the aisles, pick up a can of chips, check the price, put them back. He moves on to a package of sour gummy worms, repeats the process. Ian stays behind his counter, nervously tapping his index finger against the linoleum surface.

The guy finally makes it to the front, another of those annoyingly bright smiles at his lips aimed right at Ian. “Hey,” he says. Doesn’t say anything else.

“How’s your day going?” Ian tries. Most people around here don’t care about customer service so long as he’s not an outright dick. This guy doesn’t look like he’s from around here. Up close, Ian can see the tailored cut of his jacket, the expensive watch on his wrist. He’s dressed to blend in, but everything he’s wearing seems too high-quality to be strolling down East Canary.

“Pretty good!” His whole face lights up when he opens his mouth. “I’ve only got one case at work right now, so I’m basically on vacation, there’s so little to do. You know?”

Ian’s pretty uncomfortable being the focus of this guy’s gaze. He feels like he’s caught under a microscope, like those pretty brown eyes are looking right into his soul.

“I actually can’t relate.”

The guy blinks, laughs, shakes his head. “Yeah,” he says, “I guess most people wouldn’t.”

Ian wants to comment on this guy’s sense of entitlement, because really? Instead, he goes for a safer path. “So where do you work?”

The guy bounces his head from side to side, considering. “I’m in protection.”

The answer kind of throws Ian off. “You’re a bodyguard?”

The guy (and Ian should really learn his name at this point), laughs, says, “yeah,” all breathy-like. Ian’s admittedly a little attracted to this guy’s face. He kind of wishes he’d stop fucking smiling, though.

“That’s actually really cool!” There’s a crack in the countertop, where the plastic is peeling off the surface. Ian wedges his fingernail in, pries it open a little more. “I know somebody in that line of work too.”

The guy sighs, shakes his head. “My name’s Caleb.”

Ian puts his soda and candy in a bag, hits the button for the credit card. “Nice to meet you,” is what he says.

The smile’s back on his face when the guy-Caleb- goes to leave. “Nice talking to you, Ian.”

It takes a few minutes to realize that he never gave that stranger his name. He runs to the door, startles a little old lady about to pull the handle, but he can’t see Caleb anywhere. It’s like he just vanished.

Ian’s honestly getting tired of people vanishing on him.

...

It’s been an entire month since he woke up unexpectedly alone, and Ian’s pretty much come to grips with the fact that Mickey was never there.

Lip and Fiona took the news surprisingly well, when he’d finally come clean at the urging of the clinic shrink. He’s on new meds now, and he’s feeling pretty even, if a bit more sluggish than usual. His siblings are keeping a close eye on him, while pretending that they aren’t.

(At one point, he’d asked Mandy if she remembered meeting Mickey. She’d responded with ‘Who?” and he hasn’t brought it up since.)

Linda’s given him a break on his schedule for the last couple of weeks, so today marks the first day of his return to normal hours. He’s kind of excited, if just for the excuse to be out of the house more again.

He hasn’t seen that Caleb guy in a couple of days, either.

The store is having a slow day, and Ian’s bored enough to grab a crossword puzzle off the shelf. He’s looking for a four-letter word for a banished roman poet when the bell above the front door rings at midday. He doesn’t bother looking up, just mutters a quiet ‘hello’ and keeps staring at his book. Maybe he should go ahead and take his lunch?

Someone’s hand slaps down on the counter, startles him enough to look up. He takes in the sketchy finger tattoos, the dark hair, the pale skin. Mickey’s standing there, right in front of him, grinning that adorable little smile that Ian fucking missed.

Ian freaks the fuck out.

He's got to be hallucinating. Right? What the fuck. What the actual fuck. People get institutionalized for this shit. He should tell Lip. Fiona's back at the house, he knows she'd take the day off to go with him to the clinic.

"Fuck," he says, feeling frustrated tears prickling his eyes. He'd thought he'd leveled off with his new meds; there hadn't been any really noticeable side effects so far.

His life is so fucking unfair.

Ian spares a thought for how weird it is that his hallucinations are religiously slanted, though. He's not what anyone would call devout. Spiritual, sure. Frank's a self-proclaimed Catholic, and of course, they were all familiar with the dioses. (Vacation Bible School always offered free lunches and snacks, no matter the denomination. The Gallagher Doctrine said that they'd take what they could get.) 

Who is he kidding, this whole thing is weird. He’s still freaking out. Is he breathing? When did he last exhale?

"Whoa, whoa, whoa." Suddenly, Mickey is there, in his face, his pretty blue eyes scrunched up in concern and watching Ian closely. "Chill, please. I promise this has nothing to do with your head."

Ian can't even appreciate Mickey's unwillingness to give voice to Ian's mental problems. He's always thought to himself that the less it's said aloud the less true it is.

(He knows that's not how it works, okay. He knows.)

The only thing he can think is that of course Mickey knows what he's thinking, he's an object of Ian's own subconscious.

“I’m real, Ian. Okay? I’m here, and I promise, I’m just as real as you are.”

Ian’s shaking his head. His palms feel clammy, his vision’s blurry. Why couldn’t he have just been a normal fucking kid?

“Ian, come on, man. Just breathe with me, okay? Just breathe.”

Ian’s hand is on Mickey’s chest (when did that get there?). He can feel the rise and fall of each breath he takes, the light fluttering of his heart beat. Slowly, Ian feels his own chest expand and compress, over and over, until he feels like he’s finally on a mostly even keel.

“Ian, I’m back, okay? I’m sorry I left, I had some things to do upstairs, and they didn’t give me any notice. I would’ve told you. I sent a friend down to look out for you while I was gone, though.”

Ian inhales, counts to three, exhales. Asks the only thing that actually matters. “You’re real?”

Mickey meets his eyes, doesn’t flinch. That more than anything else is familiar. “I’m real.”

He brings the hand not resting on Mickey’s chest up to wipe his eyes, doesn’t want to be crying like a little kid, but, “I thought I’d imagined you. Nobody knew who you were, Mickey. I thought I was losing my mind again.”

“I’m sorry, Ian.” He’s pretty sure Mickey’s never said his actual name this much. He likes the way it sounds in Mickey’s mouth. He likes the way Mickey’s hands feel, one on his face and the other rubbing his back. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“Fuck.” It’s supposed to be a sound of disgust, but he ruins it by burying his face in Mickey’s neck and sniffling some more. He should probably lock the door; he really doesn’t want anyone walking in on this. At the same time, though, he almost wants someone to see, just so he doesn’t have to wonder if Mickey’s actually real or not.

“I missed you, you asshole.”

He can feel Mickey’s smile against his temple when he says, “Me too.” It’s enough.

Its enough for Ian to finally relax all of the tension he’d been holding, enough to let him grab onto Mickey’s coat to keep him from leaving again. It’s enough.

At least for a few moments.

Ian’s not sure who moves first. He knows he looks up at Mickey, and Mickey brings his forehead to touch Ian’s. Then they’re kissing. 

Mickey’s lips are chapped, and Ian’s face is still wet from all his crying, but it’s hands-down the best kiss he’s ever head. It goes on forever, or maybe just a second, because then they’re pulling apart just to pull off each other’s jackets, and Mickey pauses long enough to reach over and lock the door, before Ian leads them back to the breakroom. They barely get the door closed behind them before Mickey is unbuttoning Ian’s pants, still panting into his mouth.

Ian’s got both hands on Mickey’s ass, holding on, but his grip loosens when Mickey strokes down his shaft, leaves Ian’s mouth to trail wet kisses along his jaw, down his neck to his shoulder. Ian lets his head fall back to the wall behind him, doesn’t even try to stop the moan escaping his throat.

Mickey kneels down in front of him, and Ian opens his eyes enough to watch as Mickey exposes him to the air. Mickey glances up at Ian, smiles that way-too-adorable smile, then slides his tongue along the crown of Ian’s cock.

Ian’s head thumps back against the wall, his fingers sliding through the tresses of Mickey’s dark hair. Mickey moves from licking and tonguing the head to sliding his lips around Ian’s girth. He sucks, pulls off, then slides his mouth down even farther than before. Ian reflexively tightens his grip, then relaxes his hands again. He opens his eyes to look down at Mickey but can’t even keep up that effort for long before he’s dropping his head again, lost in the feel of Mickey’s hot, wet mouth.

“Fuck,” he says. “Please. I want to… Let me!”

Mickey doesn’t move to answer verbally, doesn’t even look at Ian’s face. His nails dig crescents into Ian’s leg and ass, his cheeks hollowing to suck harder, one stroke, then two.

When Ian finally comes down, Mickey’s still knelt between his legs. His face is pressed into Ian’s inner thigh, lips pressing against Ian’s skin with slight jerks. Ian realizes that Mickey is stroking himself off when Mickey’s teeth sink into his thigh, muffling his groan.

Ian finally lets his knees stop working, slides down the wall to sit with his legs on either side of Mickey. They’re quiet for a moment, but it’s nice. Ian definitely feels better than before.

Mickey’s got a stripe of cum on his face, like a line pointing straight down to his neck. He really just got a blowjob from an angel.

Holy shit!

Ian can’t stop his laugh, and when Mickey looks at him incredulously, Ian laughs harder. He can’t help it. All the stress, the angst, the depression from the last few weeks is gone, and it’s all thanks to his guardian angel.

Mickey must understand some of that sentiment because he eventually grins back, then moves to lay across Ian’s chest. Ian wraps his arms around Mickey, decides that he doesn’t ever want to let go.

…

The next day, Linda smirks at him when he arrives, tells him not to take too long a break.

Ian’s pretty sure his cheeks are the color of his hair.

An hour after she leaves, he realizes that Linda seeing him take his break with Mickey meant that she had seen them, together. Ian wasn’t losing his mind, after all. The last persistent bit of tension leaves his shoulders quietly, without fanfare. He’d have to volunteer to babysit or something, just to pay her back for his peace of mind.

In the meantime, Ian should maybe introduce Mickey to someone.

The thought sticks with him for the next few hours. Mickey hadn’t come to work with him, had told him he probably wouldn’t be around as much during the day as he had been before his mysterious upstairs business. Ian’s trying to stop himself from freaking out like someone’s clingy girlfriend, but he keeps circling back to ‘what if Mickey leaves again’ and ‘what if Mickey never comes back’. 

So, he distracts himself by imagining introducing his ‘hallucination’ to his family.

It probably would not go well.

He thinks Liam might actually remember Mickey, but it’s not like his toddler brother makes a great material witness. He could tell Carl, or Debbie, even though they would immediately tell Lip and/or Fiona. Then it wouldn’t be a question of hallucinating an angel but hallucinating wings on some random guy, which would probably get him sent back to the psych ward. (Mickey said only he could see him as an angel, and it’s not like he’s got wings in his human body—right? There’s no way Lip or Fiona would believe that Mickey’s an actual angel. And—oh, they’d probably try to lock up Mickey too. Or, failing that, at least keep him far away from Ian. Definitely not telling Lip and Fiona.)

His options are pretty limited. As for friends, he’s really only got Mandy. If he squinted and turned his head, he could maybe make an argument that he and Linda had bonded after she found out that she’d married a pedophile. But Mandy’s his best friend. She might not understand, but she wouldn’t go snitching to his family, either.

Of course, Mickey hadn’t exactly reacted well the last time they’d met. Maybe it was unfair to make him confront his family, even though he hadn’t really known them before he’d died. Maybe it was worse that he hadn’t known them. Shit, having Lip and Fiona come visit him when he was first getting settled on the meds had been enough to make him cry more than once. It’s not really the same thing, but he can’t really blame Mickey if he wants to keep his distance from Mandy. He’s not one to judge complicated family histories.

He’s still lost in thought at close, through locking the doors and sweeping the floors and emptying the tills. He barely comes out of it when he opens the door to leave and finds Mickey outside waiting on him.

Ian can feel himself grinning like a tool, but he can’t really help it. He’s just so, incredibly happy to see Mickey, grateful to have him back. Nothing was the same without him around. Not the shop, not his room, not his life.

Mickey smirks at him like he knows how gone on him Ian is. Which, he should! He definitely should know, because all Ian really wants right now is to wrap Mickey up in his arms and kiss him and not let go for the next decade or so. Instead, he reaches out one hand to tug on Mickey’s sleeve, tamps down the wattage on his smile some, and says, all faux-cool, “Hey, Mick.”

Mickey lifts his free hand, the one not held immobile by Ian’s grip, to rub a thumb over his top lip. His eyes look sharp in the twilight, his smirk sexy as all Hell. What Ian wouldn’t give for his own room, right about now.

“‘Hey’, he says. That all you got to say to me, Gallagher?”

Mickey’s voice feels like a touch running down his back. He’s been fine all day, but now all he can think of is getting his hands under Mickey’s shirt, down his pants. He steps close. Mickey runs hot any day, but Ian thinks he might be extra hot right now. Ian feels like a moth and Mickey’s his flame and goddamn he had no idea he was this sappy in his own head, but he’s glad Mickey can’t actually read minds.

He hums to himself, strokes his hand up Mickey’s sleeve. “I fucking missed you.”

Mickey ducks his head. “Better,” he says.

Ian takes another step closer. Offer him an inch and he’ll take a mile. He wants all of Mickey, all the time. Ian leans in close to Mickey’s ear, says “I miss fucking you.”

He has to jump back to avoid the swipe Mickey aims at his chest, but he’s laughing and Mickey doesn’t actually look pissed off, just bemused. It’s a good feeling, having put that smile onto Mickey’s face.

“You haven’t even fucked me yet, man, don’t get ahead of yourself.”

Ian catches that ‘yet’, clings to it with all of his hope. Mickey’s got this adorable little blush ghosting up his cheeks to his ears. He’s back to smirking though, more like a promise than a taunt.

“Want to get out of here?”

This time, Mickey steps close. “Damn, Red.” His eyes meet Ian’s, direct, unflinching. Serious. “Been waiting for you to ask.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so. This fic is complete. But! It was originally supposed to be a lot longer, with a whole second arc involving Heaven. I got tired of staring at this doc in my WIPs, though, and I feel like Ian's mental health makes as good an antagonist as any. I may come back with timestamps, but I make no promises.


End file.
